Float Like a Butterfly

CDFACB19-76BE-46F7-8302-D03B93AAA666“With that mouth of yours, you’re lucky someone hasn’t yet knocked that shit-eating grin off your face,” Jimmy said.

Ted was sitting at a piano in the bar playing a tune. “I’m too fast for that, my friend. As Muhammed Ali used to say, ‘I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.’”

“You wish,” Jimmy said. “Putting you and Ali in the same sentence is like putting lipstick on a pig and calling it Julia Roberts.”

“Well, Julia Roberts has some pretty impressive lips,” Ted said, without halting his piano playing.

A couple of young men walked into the bar making a lot of noise and acting aggressively.

“Hey you two, tone it down a little will you please? I’m playing here.” Ted yelled at the new arrivals.

The two men walked over to Ted. One of them said, “Were you talking to us?” While Ted was looking at the man who addressed him, the other man smashed a fist into Ted’s face.

Ted fell onto the floor and Jimmy rushed over to assist him and called out to the bartender, “Call 9-1-1!”

At that, the two rambunctious men quickly fled the bar. “Float like a butterfly, huh?” Jimmy said to Ted.

“I was blindsided,” Ted complained.

“Yeah, well meanwhile that bruise on your cheek is swelling and turning a lovely verdant shade,” Jimmy said. “But don’t worry, Ted. I’ll just tell everyone that you got stung by a bee.”

Written for Paula Light’s Three Things Challenge, where the three things are “lipstick,” “piano,” and “butterfly.” Also for these daily prompts: The Daily Spur (mouth), Word of the Day Challenge (lucky), Your Daily Word Prompt (rambunctious), Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (meanwhile), and Ragtag Daily Prompt (verdant).

Friday Fictioneers — Discovering My Passion

4AE4F7DD-305A-4132-8707-5BE4E6171FF2My father is a musician. He plays the violin. My mother is a musician. She plays the cello. My sister is a musician. She plays the clarinet.

My parents bought a piano for me because they wanted me to be a musician. But I just didn’t have the knack. The family’s musical gene wasn’t passed on to me.

In a fit of pique, my father moved the piano outside onto the sidewalk in front of the family music store, where it sat unused and rotting away.

Then I discovered my passion, my green thumb. I can make plants grow anywhere.

(100 words)

Written for the Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Anshu Bhojnagarwala.

Time To Write — Those Were The Days


“I didn’t do it,” Archie protested. “I didn’t sell the piano. How could you even think I would do such a thing? You don’t know me at all, do you?”

“Nothing you do these days surprises me,” Edith said. “And you’re right, Archie, I really don’t know you anymore.”

“I swear to God, Edith, I didn’t sell your stupid piano,” Archie said.

“Then where is it?” Edith asked. “It was right here in our living room before we went to Philly to visit Gloria and Mike.”

“Okay, Dingbat,” Archie admitted. “It has been six months since I insisted they get their own place and move out and I was feeling guilty. And then Meathead said that Gloria really missed having a piano. So I called my buddy from work and had him and his crew picked it up and drive it down to Gloria’s place.”

“Oh Archie,” Edith said, “that was so thoughtful of you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because, Edith, I know how much you love us sitting down at the piano and singing together,” Archie said. “Besides, if I have to listen to you screech ‘Those were the days’ one more time, I think I’d have to kill myself.”

Written for Rachel Poli’s Time To Write prompt.

Twittering Tales — Piano Man

It had been quite a while since Edgar had last sat at the piano and, as he liked to say, tickled the ivories.

He regarded his arthritic fingers and wondered if they could still work well enough to play a piece.

Every stroke hurt, but it was, indeed, music to his ears.

(266 characters)

Written for this week’s Twittering Tales prompt from Kat Myrman. Photo credit: Pexels at Pixabay.com.